


pas de deux

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Wizards, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, basically i wanted to go ham in 1920s wizarding britain, enemies to lovers who are enemies, sooooo yeah enjoy!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:41:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: She’d think he came after her to flirt, or maybe offer a snog, if it was anyone but him. As it is, he stays just out of arm’s reach when he tells her, in a low voice, “You should stay away from them.”“Who?” she asks, playing dumb. She has been around enough simple witches tonight that it isn’t hard to emulate them.“The Targaryens,” he says, and it’s clear he hasn’t been fooled by her act. “Aerys Targaryen will have the whole of Wizarding Britain at war if he has his way."~~~There's going to be a war. Cersei will come out on top, no matter what it takes.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Ned Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 143





	pas de deux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [archmaestergilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archmaestergilly/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday to Tia! I love you <3333

Cersei met the elder two Starks in the Christmas of her seventh year at Hogwarts, at the Tyrell ball, the first one she’d arrived at on the arm of Rhaegar Targaryen. She was of an age with their sister Lyanna, a loud Gryffindor girl to whom Jaime had, annoyingly, become fast friends with in their third year, and there was their younger brother the year below them. Brandon had graduated four years before, and Ned right after, and she’d never spoken to either, but all of Hogwarts knew the Starks. One couldn’t help it, as they all looked so damnably similar, and their bloodline was one of the most distinguished in all of wizarding Britain. 

It was accidental, their meeting. Cersei hadn’t meant to go to the refreshments table on her own--she’d told Rhaegar, quite firmly, that she’d wanted a drink--but there were just so many people around them that within moments of making their first steps, Rhaegar had been waylaid by the head of the DMLE, and Cersei’s patience had worn thin. She was thirsty, after dancing for so long with Rhaegar and speaking to so many vapid witches all tittering about how _lovely_ it must have been to be on the Targaryen heir’s arm for the night. 

And it truly would have been, if Cersei hadn’t known that their fathers had arranged it, and that their fathers would be arranging a betrothal the moment she stepped out of Hogwarts. She’d quite fancied Rhaegar at school, when he’d been a Slytherin prefect and she’d been a starstruck first year--although she’d die before she ever admitted being starstruck by _anyone_ \-- but it rankled that their fathers had to arrange it, that Rhaegar had not asked her to the ball itself. He’d danced with her, of course, and shown her every courtesy, but Cersei had not yet managed one conversation that went beyond pleasantries before more simpering wizards tried to cut in. 

And so she took the interruption as a sign to escape the crowd for a moment and murmured her apologies before making way to the refreshments table. It was one of many tables scattered at the periphery of the ballroom, and so it was not crowded at all, save a few witches practically slobbering over the eclairs, and two wizards who were clearly in a heated, hushed conversation.

She was at the table before she truly recognized them. The Stark boys were famous, after all-- Brandon had been Gryffindor Quidditch captain for three years, a brilliant seeker that Jaime had practically worshiped, and Ned had been a keeper, nowhere near as grand, but rumored to be a fierce dueler (though Cersei never met anyone who’d actually _seen_ him duel). Their Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had mentioned him, even after his graduation, as having one of the best N.E.W.T. and O.W.L. scores he’d ever seen. 

They noticed her the same time she noticed them. Their conversation--tense and hushed-- ceased immediately, and Brandon, the older and more handsome of the two, nodded in greeting at her. 

He was an auror, she recalled suddenly. In fact, she rather thought they both were. 

“Miss Lannister,” Brandon said, and despite the tense line of his shoulders, his smile was quite charming. A good actor, she supposed, although she wouldn’t think any of the Starks were capable of it. They tended to be a rather brash lot, excepting Ned Stark, with no talent for finesse. 

“Mister Stark,” she returned. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Ah, not exactly,” Brandon Stark agreed. “But our sister is quite good friends with your brother, aren’t they? We’ve certainly seen Jaime about enough to recognize a sister of his.”

Cersei smiled stiffly. She’d never gotten on with Jaime’s Gryffindor friends, and she suspected that Brandon could have guessed that by his sardonic tones. Or perhaps Jaime had told Brandon that himself, or perhaps Lyanna had complained of her. She didn’t much care.

“Introductions should be in order, in any case,” Brandon continued. “I am Brandon Stark, and this is my brother, Ned.”

Cersei turned to the brother, and saw that he was not as good an actor as Brandon. His jaw was still clenched, and Cersei suddenly wanted to know--rather badly--what they’d been discussing before she arrived. 

“Cersei Lannister,” she told them, in as neutral a tone as she could manage. Her smile was joyless, but only for a moment. It would not do if someone saw her behaving badly and reported it to her father. 

She held her hand out, and Brandon swept it up for a kiss, gallant and courtly enough to make any woman other than the one before him swoon. Ned Stark was not quite as graceful, and in fact Cersei barely felt the pressure of his lips through her glove before he withdrew. 

“Would you like a refreshment?” Ned Stark asked, as if remembering his manners. He was looking quite directly at Cersei, exactly into her eyes, and she wondered if this was the first man all night whose eyes had not dropped immediately to her dress robes. She’d worn silver, to compliment Rhaegar’s silver-blonde hair, and it clung to her in the right places. She loved the dress, loved the way it made her _feel,_ even if the attentions sometimes made her shiver with something akin to revulsion when it was from men her father’s age.

“Yes,” she murmured, “a glass of port, if there is one.”

Her father would have a fit if he knew she drank alcohol here, but Cersei was rather vexed with him, and when she was angry she was reckless. To his credit, Ned did not ask if she was allowed port, but instead busied himself with the task of retrieving her a glass.

She thanked him as he passed it to her, and took a sip. The wine was cool and just what she needed.

“Is your father here tonight?” Brandon asked, when she had taken a few more sips. “I have not seen him since the Wizengamot meeting a month ago.”

“He is not. He and a few other men have gone for Christmas drinks at the Targaryen mansion,” Cersei said, although she did not add that her father would never bring himself so low as to attend a Tyrell ball. They were rumored to have Muggle blood in their veins, and although Cersei was expected to attend, her father would have rather walked through a lion’s den.

Something complicated happened on each of the Stark men’s faces at the name _Targaryen._ In fact, it seemed as though the polite smiles had been wiped off entirely. 

“Are they quite friendly, then?” Brandon asked, as casually as if he’d been asking about the weather. “Your father and Aerys Targaryen.”

Cersei, suddenly, was unsure of what was happening. Was there something strange going on with Lord Aerys? Her father had said nothing of his affairs, but he never did. 

“I am not sure if Lord Aerys or my father can be called _friends,_ precisely,” Cersei settled on, raising a brow. “They do business together. For the Ministry.”

Ned made a noise from besides her, and Cersei’s eyes slid to him. It looked as though he’d barely suppressed a scoff of disbelief. 

Her mouth tightened. “My father is a specialist in cursed objects,” she tells them, although she’s not sure why she has offered the information. “And the Ministry occasionally has need of his expertise.” 

“You’re here with Rhaegar,” Ned Stark says, and she is startled to hear him speak. “Your fathers must be good friends if they trust him with you, as you’re not yet done with school, are you?”

She is not sure what’s happening here. Is her father involved in something? Is Aerys Targaryen involved? Cersei should walk away and find Rhaegar and go home, but something keeps her rooted to the spot. Perhaps it’s because she has not had a single unpredictable conversation yet tonight, or perhaps it’s because she’s angry at Rhaegar for paying her so little mind and treating her like a child, or perhaps it’s just because she’s bored. 

She smiles. It’s a slow, wicked smile. Jaime tells her, often, that she looks quite sultry when she smiles this way. 

Tyrion tells her she looks like a crow who swallowed an unpleasantly wriggly mouse.

“I’m seventeen,” she says. “And I’ll be done with Hogwarts soon enough.”

It’s odd, Cersei thinks, that Ned has not yet so much as looked down her dress. They’re all quite close, and she knows Brandon has looked. She feels his eyes on her in her periphery. But Ned’s eyes are cold and grey and firmly on her face. 

“So your father is gunning for a betrothal, then,” Ned says. Cersei would have gasped at his forwardness, if it wasn’t for the fact that she felt he wanted her to be outraged. She would not give him the satisfaction. 

“I don’t know my father’s mind,” Cersei says flippantly, waving a hand. “I am sure he will do what he believes best for the family.”

Ned Stark’s eyes, which had been quite concentrated on hers, slide to look behind her. Cersei feels, rather than hears, Rhaegar’s presence behind her. 

“Stark,” he says to Brandon, smooth as water. “How good to see you. It’s been a while.”

“Targaryen,” Brandon answers, eyes flashing. Cersei knows, suddenly, that these men hate each other. She’s seen hate before, often in her father’s eyes when looking at Tyrion, but never something so ugly as she does between Brandon and Rhaegar. “It hasn’t been long enough for me, I must say. You do seem to be popping up everywhere these days.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Cersei sees that Ned, clearly never the most expressive of men, is also clenching his jaw, hand resting in the pockets of his robe. His wand must be in one of them, she realizes. 

_Best dueler of his age I’ve seen in years,_ she remembers Professor Arryn saying proudly. This might turn sour, and Cersei cannot imagine that Rhaegar would do well against two men so clearly powered by hate. 

Rhaegar must realize it too, because he turns to her and says, “Cersei, it’s quite late. I’ve called for the carriage, but I still have to speak with the Minister. Would you go wait in the foyer while I finish with him?”

He treats her like a child, she thinks suddenly. “Yes, of course,” she says, as sweetly as she can. Rhaegar seems to miss the edge underneath. Then, without looking at the Starks, she turns to walk away.

She is surprised, then, to hear someone following her out of the ballroom. Ned is only a step or so behind her when she reaches the coatroom and describes her coat to the maid at the bottom--a house elf couldn’t be given coats, of course--and then she raises a brow at him, expectant. 

She’d think he came after her to flirt, or maybe offer a snog, if it was anyone but him. As it is, he stays just out of arm’s reach when he tells her, in a low voice, “You should stay away from them.”

“Who?” she asks, playing dumb. She has been around enough simple witches tonight that it isn’t hard to emulate them.

“The Targaryens,” he says, and it’s clear he hasn’t been fooled by her act. “Aerys Targaryen will have the whole of Wizarding Britain at war if he has his way, and Rhaegar…”

It is the first she’s heard of _war._ Yes, Cersei supposes Aerys is a bit extreme, and that there were whisperings that he’d be the next Minister, but she hadn’t really thought there would be anyone actually opposing him. She realizes, with a shiver, that the Starks and the Baratheons and a few other pureblood families--powerful families--might not want a man such as Aerys in charge. 

“Rhaegar is a horrible man,” Ned finishes, finally. “You should not associate with him.”

Cersei’s eyes flash. She has never liked being told what she should or should not do. 

“And who are you,” she says, soft and dangerous, “to tell me who to associate with?”

He laughs, a short huff of breath that would hardly be considered a laugh if anyone listening could see his face and the expression on it. “No one,” he says. “But I would warn any young lady associating with him the same.”

“Why?” Cersei asks, arching a brow. When he says nothing, she tells him, “Well, if that is all, Mr. Stark--”

“He took great pains to be found in a compromising position with my sister,” Ned says harshly. “When she was only 13, and he was a seventh year. If we’d lived only ten years before, my father would have offered her up for marriage. At _thirteen._ Do you understand?” 

Cersei does. The wizarding world is old fashioned, and any girl of a pureblood family found in a compromising position with a wizard would be carted off and married for the family’s reputation to remain intact. It was still done, in some circles. 

“I don’t believe that,” she says numbly. “Why would he want a child?”

“Because she’s a Stark,” Ned replies, as if that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And he wants us on his side.”

“For the war?” She sounds snide, but that’s only because Cersei is shaking inside, and she has always covered her fear with disdain. This is the first time anyone has ever spoken to her so frankly about politics, and it leaves a taste in her mouth that she does not know if she likes.

“Yes,” he hisses. “I am telling you, the things they’re planning--” he breaks off, and breathes deeply. “I thought to warn you,” he says stiffly, and inclines his head to her, polite but cold. “You should be careful, Miss Lannister. Very careful.” 

And then he’s gone, and Cersei is left blinking in the foyer, thoughts racing rapidly, until Rhaegar collects her and takes her home.

  
  
  


A war does not start in a day, Cersei supposes, and when she wakes up Christmas day everything seems as it was the night before. It’s really only when she goes down to breakfast that she remembers her conversation--if one could be so generous as to truly call it that--with Ned and Brandon Stark. 

Jaime is already down, shoveling bacon and eggs into his mouth as if he hasn’t eaten in a month. “How was the ball?” he asks, and Cersei rolls her eyes at him.

“Fine, I suppose. It was crowded, and hot. How was the party you went to?”

“Good,” Jaime said around his food. If their father had been there, he would have sent a stinging hex at Jaime for such rudeness, but their father was not there, and Cersei settled for a flat glare. Jaime rolled his eyes and finished chewing. “I wish you’d been there. Sounds far less stuffy than the Tyrell ball. I wonder why father keeps making you go every year.”

 _Because eligible ladies must be seen,_ Cersei can hear her father saying, after she’d asked him the same question. _Even if they must be seen in that filthy mudblood house._

“Who was at your party?” she asks, spreading jam on a roll. Only a little. It wouldn’t do to overindulge, Unlike Jaime, she cannot keep such a figure by playing Quidditch all day. 

“People from school. Mostly Gryffindors, but some Hufflepuffs, I suppose. Lyanna had to leave when her brothers came to pick her up, but I had some laughs with Addam and Posy after she left. Did you know they’re going together?”

Lyanna Stark. Cersei can’t help but remember Ned’s words to her last night. _He took great pains to be found in a compromising position with my sister._

“I don’t really care if Addam is going with Posy, or if he’s going with Jeyne, or whatever new stupid witch he’s found. They’re all idiots, falling for his tricks.”

Jaime laughed, bright and loud. He was the only one who truly laughed like that in their house. Cersei loved him very much when he did, providing he wasn’t laughing _at_ her. 

“I’ll grant you that, because his tricks are very bad,” Jaime says, “but Posy is quite nice.”

“She’s a blubbering fool,” Cersei retorts.

“She hasn’t cried since second year.”

“Yes, but she spent two years crying in the first floor restroom, where everyone could hear her.”

“Well, you were very homesick too, from what I remember.”

Cersei’s hand freezes, halfway to her mouth. She glares at Jaime over the roll. “But you were the only person who knew it,” she informs him coldly. “And you would do well not to keep bringing it up.”

Jaime shrugs, and takes more bacon. He’s wearing Gryffindor colors, she realizes, instead of the green robes their father had given him. 

“You should change,” Cersei says, “before Father sees you dressed like that.”

“I think,” Jaime bites a piece of toast, “not.”

Their father had been furious when Jaime was placed in Gryffindor. Even now, seven years later, Cersei can remember the way Jaime’s face had drained, reading the letter he’d received only the day after Sorting. If their father was the kind to stomach a public embarrassment, he’d have sent a Howler, but Cersei thought the letter had done the trick worse than anything else. Jaime had turned white as a sheet, his hands shaking. He’d gone to the headmaster and asked to be switched to Slytherin that very morning, only to be informed that the Sorting Hat did not make mistakes. 

Their father had gotten over his fury, and it had simmered to a searing rage that reared its head every few months. Jaime would not escape his ire if he flaunted his Gryffindor colors. 

“He’ll be angry with you,” Cersei warns him.

“Good,” Jaime retorts. “Then he’ll leave me alone for the rest of our holiday, and I can go finish the map I’m working on with Lyanna.”

“Map?” Cersei echoes, and her mind catches on _Lyanna_ again. It can’t be true, can it? 

_He took great pains to be found in a compromising position with my sister._

If her father is old fashioned, she’s heard stories--from Jaime--about how the late Rickard Stark had been even more so. It’s astonishing to hear that Lyanna is not engaged to be married to Rhaegar, if what her brother said was true. 

“A map of Hogwarts and the secret passages,” Jaime explains. “But don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” Cersei swears. She’s good at secrets, although she really only ever keeps Jaime’s with such loyalty. Some things are sacred between twins, after all. 

Jaime stands, and kisses her cheek. “You are the very best of sisters,” he declares, eyes twinkling. “I’ll be back later.”

  
  
  


On New Year’s eve, Cersei is once again at a ball. The Baratheon New Year’s ball is much larger than the one at Christmas, and much more well attended, since there are no rumors of muddy blood to contend with. She came with Jaime and her father, this time, instead of on Rhaegar’s arm. 

“He will be sure to dance with you, however,” her father informed them before they entered the Floo. “At least twice, and spend time being seen with you. His father and I have arranged it. They must all see where the power has shifted. There can be no doubt of it, that Targaryen and Lannister are aligned.”

It smarts, for Cersei’s father to be arranging her _dances_ now. She’s beautiful, and she knows it, and men should trip over themselves for the privilege of dancing with her, not do it because their _fathers_ arranged it all. 

The party is in full swing when they arrive. Cersei is dressed in green--better to bring out her eyes _and_ show house pride--and quite a few heads turn her way. Perhaps it was scandalous to paint her lips a bold, vivid red. She is, after all, not yet out of school, but Cersei _likes_ to scandalize, as long as their eyes are on her. 

Jaime has been instructed to dance with Elia Martell, and so he goes off with a grumble to search her out. Cersei knows _that_ will be a disaster of major proportions, but she’d understood better than to interrupt Jaime and her father’s fight about it. 

_What an idiot Ned Stark was,_ Cersei thinks as she steps into the ballroom. _There won’t be a war._

Except now that she’s here, she can see the battle lines forming. Wizarding families cluster together according to alliance, and although the music is merry and laughter fills the air, there is a current of tension under it all. They are on the precipice of something, and she isn’t sure what it will be when they fall off.

She cannot think much of it before some Hightower--she can never remember their names-- approaches. “Miss Lannister, you look lovely. May I have this dance?”

And so she places her hand in his, and she’s off.

Rhaegar _doesn’t_ approach Cersei, a fact that does not escape her father’s notice. She can see him grow more and more impatient with every new dance. It uncoils a little snake of nerves in her belly, to see him so agitated, and she catches sight of Rhaegar across the room, laughing with men from the Ministry. If she had her wand in hand, Cersei doesn’t doubt that she’d fling a discreet hex at him. It’s a cold rage she feels, at being ignored like this, despite his attention very clearly being due to the machinations of their fathers. 

The dance ends, and her partner says, “You’re a lovely dancer.” 

She barely hears him. “I hear my father calling,” she lies, and leaves him on the floor, stammering after her.

She has no intention of going to her father and stomaching his anger. It does not matter that it is not Cersei’s fault that Rhaegar has not approached her. She knows he will be angry with her, because he cannot be angry at the man he wants her to marry so badly. Instead, she makes for the refreshments table, where she thinks she sees a flash of her brother’s golden hair. 

He’s disappeared by the time she arrives. Instead, Ned Stark is in his place.

“Do you always hover by the refreshments at every ball, Mr. Stark?” she wonders aloud. There is an edge to her voice, but Ned just turns to her slowly, shoulders tensing at her voice.

“Miss Lannister,” he greets, tipping his head in acknowledgement. “I am not one for dancing, usually. My brother takes far more enjoyment in it.”

“Whereas you prefer to stay near the food,” she returns, picking up a glass at random. She’d done it to seem unaffected and cool, but when she sips it--lemonade--she nearly makes a face of disgust. 

“It is quite good,” he tells her, his face giving nothing away. Perhaps he saw the tightening of her lips at the tartness. “Robert’s chef is straight from France.”

 _Robert?_ But then Cersei recalls that Ned had been fast friends with the eldest Baratheon at school. She can’t imagine why.

“That explains it, I suppose,” she says, deliberately vague.

“Explains what?” he asks, as if he doesn’t actually want to know what she means.

“Why _Robert_ seems so different from the way he did at school. All the French food, I gather.”

It’s rather cruel to say so, but Cersei has never much cared for niceties. Besides, it’s only true. Robert has gained a bit--though she will admit not _that_ much--of weight since he’d been in school three years ago. Probably less to do with food and more to do with the lack of daily Quidditch, but the barb lands nonetheless.

For one glorious second, Cersei can see that she has rendered him speechless. She waits for his indignation and sputtering and offense, but instead, he laughs. 

His face is different when he laughs. Cersei hadn’t ever seen it before, what drove people like Robert Baratheon to seek out quiet, boring Ned Stark, but when he throws back his head and laughs, she suddenly understands. 

Her face is turning red. She can feel it, even if she can’t see it. She’s painfully happy, all of the sudden, that she’d placed a glamor on her skin instead of applying powder tonight. 

“I will be telling him you said that,” he says, finally, when his laughter subsides.

Cersei stares in horror. “You will _not.”_

His eyes catch hers, and the smile fades from his face, as though he has just remembered to whom he was speaking. “Don’t worry,” he says, back to his blank expression. “I won’t tell him it came from you.”

Cersei glares at him. She probably shouldn’t, since her father might see, but she pours all of her strength into the glare. 

Instead of getting offended, he seems _amused._ The corner of his mouth twitches before he schools his face into careful blankness again. 

“Would you care to dance?” he asks.

Cersei can hardly refuse without seeming ungracious. Instead, she hedges, “I thought you said you can’t dance.”

“I said I don’t usually. I took the same lessons you did at Hogwarts, however.”

Cersei bites her lip. His eyes don’t even so much as flicker down from hers. It’s disconcerting, to not have him looking at her body. She knows how beautiful she is. She’d suspect him of not liking women if she didn’t know that he and Ashara Dayne had nearly been married, and Jaime had told her Ned was devastated when she broke it off. 

She sees, at the other end of the ballroom, that Rhaegar and Elia Martell are standing together, waiting for the musicians to start a new dance. Suddenly, she knows that she will accept, if only because Rhaegar and the Starks hate one another so very much.

“I can spare a dance,” she says airily, and lets him lead her onto the floor.

They fall into a waltz almost seamlessly, and Cersei is surprised to find that _yes,_ Ned Stark can dance. In fact, he’s quite good. And he’s tall. She never realized it until she was in his arms.

She almost misses it when he says, “You’re not as subtle as you think, you know.”

Cersei looks up, startled. It’s the closest she’s ever been to him, and she can see the different shades of grey in his eyes. “And how do you mean that?” she asks coldly.

“You Slytherins always think you’re the smartest, most subtle people in the room,” Ned says, “but often you’re quite bad at it. I can see you keeping an eye out for Targaryen.” He shakes his head. “I’d hoped you would keep away from him.”

“I haven’t spoken to him all night, I’ll have you know,” Cersei says stiffly. “And it is no business of yours--”

“I know,” he retorts, and looks down at her. “I’m not telling you to do anything. I’m just observing that you’re very unsubtle.”

She steps on his foot. Not nearly as hard as she’d like to, but she hears his hiss of surprise. 

“Oh, how clumsy of me,” she titters, sweet as poison. 

He smiles tightly at her, and says, “It’s no bother. Some people just need to practice dancing more often, I suppose.”

He dodges her foot the next time she tries to step on him. 

Oddly, Cersei doesn’t mind his impertinence as much as she would normally. Probably because she would never normally assume Ned Stark had a sarcastic bone in his body. And he really is good at dancing. 

She wants, very suddenly, to shock him. She wants to see what other surprises he has left in store. 

It’s close to midnight. When the dance is over, Cersei pushes her hand into her dress robe pockets and whispers _“Tempus,”_ under her breath. It’s eleven fifty-two. 

She wonders, for a mad moment, what he would do if she kissed him at midnight. 

She pushes the thought away as quickly as it came.

“Thank you for a lovely dance,” she says, with a smile she usually reserves for professors she’s trying to butter up. He doesn’t appreciate her subtlety, it seems, but she forges ahead anyway. “If you don’t mind, would you escort me to the balcony? I am a bit overheated in here.”

And magically, he doesn’t seem to realize she has an ulterior motive. Instead, he sighs, puts out his elbow, and lets her place her hand in the crook. 

Cersei thanks Merlin for the crush of people. Her father is nowhere in sight. He doesn’t see her leaving the room on Ned Stark’s arm.

There are a few couples on the balcony, but enough space for her and Ned to have a bit of privacy. It’s cold, however, and Ned sees her shivering immediately. Before she can cast a warming charm, his wand is out, and he’s conjured a thick coat for her. 

“Thank you,” Cersei says, pulling it around herself. Wolf’s fur, it looks like, and warm as sin. 

Ned just nods his acknowledgment. He looks unbothered by the cold. Cersei realizes that his family lives in Scotland most of the year, and that the London chill would be nothing to him. 

He seems quite content to not say anything, she finds. Silence, while sometimes a blessing, was not a thing Cersei tended to be very comfortable with, but Ned seemed to have no issue with it. 

“Why,” she asks, “do you think there will be war?”

He turns to her. She thinks he’s been waiting for her to ask that question all night. “I know you hang about with other purebloods all the time,” he says. “Most Slytherins do. The Sorting Hat doesn’t ever really put Muggle-borns into your house. You might not see the tensions then, at school.”

There have always been tensions. Cersei wants to ask him if he thinks she’s an idiot, but that would give him the option to say _yes,_ and that wouldn’t do. 

“There is a portion of wizarding society,” he continues, “that believes that Muggle-borns should not be allowed at Hogwarts, or any magical school for that matter. They believe that Muggle-borns should not be taught magic at all.” His eyes find hers. “Your father is among that portion, I believe. So are the Targaryens.”

“That’s the way it’s always been,” Cersei says. “There has always been dislike of the Mudbloods. Why do you think it will amount to war now?”

On the railing of the balcony, Ned’s hand spasms, then tightens into a fist. “Do _not_ use that word around me,” he tells her, voice absolutely cold. 

“Oh,” Cersei says, mockingly, “did you forget you’re from one of the purest stocks in Britain? I don’t understand why this matter means anything to you.”

“It is _wrong_ to treat people differently because of how they’re born,” he tells her. There’s a fire in his eyes now, something she’s never seen there before. “If you were born into a Muggle family, would it be fair to keep magic from you?”

“What a stupid question,” Cersei replies, “since I am not, nor will I ever be, from a Muggle family.”

His jaw works for a moment before he tells her, “Do you even understand what the Muggle-born contribution to wizarding society has been? Do you understand that we would still be living in the middle ages if not for the Muggle-borns who come in and bring us into the new age every few years?” He leans forward, eyes blazing, “Do you know that if it wasn’t for Muggle-borns showing up and proving how archaic our _stupid_ rules were, my sister would be shackled to that monster you were making eyes at in there?”

“I wasn’t making _eyes.”_

“Whatever you want to call it, then,” he says. “I don’t care how much you want him. He and his father will kill and destroy whatever is in their way to make what they think is a pure wizarding world. And I, for one, cannot stand for that.”

It’s quiet for a few long moments. Cersei can feel her heart beating hard in her chest. “I don’t want him,” she tells him, surprised how true it is. “I only want the power that comes with him.”

She bites her lip as soon as she says it, wishing it could be taken back. No one is supposed to know. She wasn’t supposed to give it away as easily as that, that all she wants is power and to be taken seriously. To not be subject to her father’s demands. 

“There are other ways to get that,” he says, finally. 

“Not for me.”

He studies her for a long moment. “So be it,” he sighs, and begins to turn away. 

They both start at the cheers erupting from the ballroom. It seems they are quite alone on the balcony. Everyone has gone inside to ring in 1925.

“It must be midnight,” he murmurs, and turns back to say something else.

Cersei never finds out what it is he means to tell her. Instead, she rises on her toes (already difficult in her heeled shoes), and kisses him squarely on the mouth.

For a frozen four seconds, he doesn’t respond at all. Cersei is about to pull away, embarrassment curling in her throat, but then he puts his hand on the side of her neck and opens his mouth beneath hers. 

It’s a searing kiss. Cersei’s fingers end up fisted in his robes, pulling him closer. She can feel his hand burning into her hip, and the pins in her hair loosening when he touches it. 

She isn’t sure how long it lasts, only that she feels slightly dazed when he breaks away. His mouth is smeared red with her lipstick, his robes skewed and chest rising rapidly. 

He looks a wreck. Cersei can’t help but feel pride in that. 

She swallows, pulls out her wand. Within seconds, her dress robes are back in order and her hair is fixed. 

“Well, Stark,” she says, breaking the silence. “It’s been a laugh. I suppose I won’t be seeing you around.”

He doesn’t reply. His eyes are dark, and perhaps he’s thinking of coming back in for another kiss, but he stays away. 

It’s probably better that way. Cersei feels the sting anyway. 

She waves her wand, and his robes straighten. She doesn’t fix the lipstick on his face, though, and almost hopes he wanders back inside with it still on him. She wants everyone to see what he’s been doing. What she’s done _to_ him.

She turns her back on him. “Happy New Year,” she says, and begins to walk away. 

“Cersei,” he says, the first time he ever says her name. 

She doesn’t turn around. In fact, after that, she doesn’t see Ned Stark for almost two years.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, please leave kudos/a comment! They make me very happy!


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